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Death of the Loch Ness Monster, by Gwendolyn MacEwan

Consider that the thing has died before we proved it ever lived 
and that it died of loneliness, dark lord of the loch, 
fathomless Worm, great Orm, this last of our mysteries - 
'haifend ane meikill fin on ilk syde 
with ane taill and ane terribill heid' - 
and that it had no tales to tell us, only that it lived there, 
lake-locked, lost in its own coils, 
waiting to be found; in the black light of midnight 
surfacing, its whole elastic length unwound, 
and the sound it made as it broke the water 
was the single plucked string of a harp - 
this newt or salamander, graceful as a swan, 
this water-snake, this water-horse, this water-dancer. 

( Consider him tired of pondering the possible existence of man )

You didn't think there wouldn't be monster poetry, did you?